Solitary Confinement
by Singtoangels1
Summary: If George was quiet and allowed the room to speak to him, he could still hear midnight plottings and lazy fantasies sketched out in monosyllabic words, or the warm language of comfort and groans of completion that whispered through the eaves.


**Title: Solitary Confinement  
Author: Sing to Angels  
Author's Notes: I wrote this for Glockgal as my entry for the F&G Fest finishing up in my LJ right now. Hope everyone enjoys it. It's probably the safest thing I've written in ages, and the only story of low enough rating to put on FF in god only knows how long.**

George firmly pressed his thumb to the mirror and pulled it back.

A print was visible beside his own; a fresh, single loop leaning to the right. George's mark was a dusty whorl surrounded by drifting lines. It was so faint that if he hadn't known to look for it, he wouldn't have seen it at all. As much as Peeves had taught him, George realised that there were limits after all.

But fingerprints weren't that interesting. Not really. George wandered over to his bed and picked up one of his crumpled shirts. He brought it to his nose. It smelled cold, dry . . . full of Billiwig wings and stale, dried tears.

If George was quiet and allowed the room to speak to him, he could still hear midnight plottings and lazy fantasies sketched out in monosyllabic words, or the warm language of comfort and groans of completion that whispered through the eaves.

George flopped back on his bed and stretched out his limbs. His fingers brushed a picture frame perched precariously on the edge of the mattress and he snatched it up to have a look. But the sun was behind him, so he couldn't see anyone moving inside; the glass only reflected back the light and the swaying shadows of trees outside of the window.

He felt like a plant without sun: pale, transparent, and withered.

When George turned the frame to squint past the glare, a shiny corner flashed and ignited a silver box on his night table. The box was so pretty, and it sparkled so beguilingly that George dropped the picture frame just to run his hands over its familiar, sun-warmed surface.

The box was knobbly - as it had always been - and was covered in interestingly-shaped stones he and Fred had picked up as children and stuck to the surface. Some of them were creek pebbles and some were rarer stones they'd picked up in Egypt or Diagon Alley. George counted two that must have contained quartz because they splintered iridescent rainbows through his fingers.

But as pretty as the silver box was, George twisted away. He didn't like being gloomy, and he knew that the box was full to bursting with ideas and futures that would never be realised.

A soft snore made George turn over.

Fred laid on the bed across from him. He sighed and shifted in his sleep, his arms crossed at the elbows and thrust out awkwardly as he slept on his side. Fred's speckled hands dangled over the edge, his fingers just slightly curled at the tips.

George stretched out, carefully mimicked Fred, and thought that it wasn't as uncomfortable a position as it looked. George always preferred to sleep on his stomach. Fred slept on his side. Sometimes, when Ginny was still a little girl, she'd come to their room after having a nightmare and slip up in bed with one of them.

Ginny always slept on her back.

George rolled onto his stomach again and pushed himself away from the bed. He walked over to his brother's bed and curled his body over Fred's back: one shoulder buried deep in down pillow and his other arm resting on Fred's stomach. George let his fingers trail up Fred's chest and his hand rose when Fred breathed.

He wondered if Fred could feel him here. Then, Fred was a notoriously deep sleeper. But just maybe, that little shiver meant that he felt _something_. George didn't know what to say, on the off-chance that Fred could hear him from where he was in dreamland.

George's eyes wandered around the room. He noticed that their shelf of potions ingredients and charms books was dusty. Fred hadn't shaved in at least a week. Ginny's favourite plush dragon was hiding behind the open wardrobe door. Someone had scattered that pile of Chocolate Frog cards they'd nicked from Ron all over the floor.

He supposed that their mother hadn't had much time to clean their room lately. He was surprised, though, that she hadn't draped their mirror in black like she had done to all the rest in the house. Maybe Fred took the crepe down so he could pretend . . .

George tightened his arm around his brother and closed his eyes. He imagined that he had breath to stir the hairs on the back of Fred's neck, and that the weight of his arms made an indention on his clothes.

If George tried hard enough, he could pull the quilts down and spoon up properly, but he was tired. Surely Fred would remember how it was in the womb: their own little secret. They remembered it. Had always remembered holding each other inside of that warm, dark cave. George wanted to remind him, but he had already used up most of his energy picking up the shirt and the box.

He wondered what Fred would do now that he was gone. Fred had always been strong and wild, but George suspected that Fred was as lost now as he was.

George hoped that when Fred finally died - far, far in the future - that he wouldn't be caught somewhere between slumbering and waking. George couldn't deal with this parody of a life; it just wasn't funny.

Whenever Fred looked in the mirror, George knew that he'd be waiting. He would always live for Fred there, and perhaps for everyone else in Fred. No one could know how different they were, not really. Perhaps Fred would take up an interest in Arithmancy and cooking instead of Charms and collecting Muggle coins. But that wouldn't be right because Fred should always be _Fred_.

But he would be George for them, because it was Fred's nature to make people feel better. If they saw Fred alone, perhaps they'd think that he - George - was just around the corner, waiting to toss a dungbomb at their feet. Or they'd think that it was Fred who lay in wait as George distracted them.

And when Fred married some girl to ease the loneliness, maybe she would wonder what it would be like if his twin had survived . . . all the fun they could have had together. Fred would never realise it, because George knew he had always assumed that one was enough for everyone until George died. And Fred's little wife would gradually grow sick of the way he clings to her at night, how his skin sticks to hers until she can't tell where he ends and she begins.

Maybe none of it would happen, and Fred would only be sad for a while; missing a piece of himself, not sure how to mend it, and happily tromp on with his life.

George shook his head and let his hands sink inside of Fred's chest to rest on his hot heart. It fluttered in George's hand and he sighed before shifting against Fred again.

"Sleep while you can, Forge. And don't look in the mirror when you wake up, eh?"

**As always, I ask that you leave an honest (that was shite/totally brilliant/etc) review if you've come this far.**


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